Wedded Bliss?

Poetry

my parents called it the happiest day of their lives —

even though, behind closed doors, their arguments

rattled the very foundation of our family home,

earthquakes stuttering through the miasma.

looking at the pictures of the wedding taught me

not to trust the veracity of smiles upon faces

because I could see from the very wrinkle by

my mother’s mouth that she was not ecstatic.

the gleams in their eyes hid darker shadows,

echoes of things to come alive in breaths,

and the only time I remember my father smiling

was the moment he walked out the door for work.

the outfits were perfect, colors pale and subtle;

the cake bore the effigies of man and wife;

and the only thing amiss was the way

the lovely couple danced, like strangers.

when my mother talks about that day now,

she spits out words of regret and angst,

as if twenty years together is far too much,

much more a sacrifice than a blessing.